221Bs of Randomness
by Hyperactive Random Girl
Summary: A 221B series, ranging from sad snippets to merry moments.
1. Bird

"Holmes, you must eat something!"

I turned my head to find an irate physician glaring at me. "My dear Watson, I cannot afford to waste time on this case by eating!"

"Holmes. It has been two days already! Just eat something!" Watson looked at me, straightening his cravat. "I'll force some food down your throat if I have to!"

I had no doubt he was capable of it.

I _did_ doubt that he would actually do it.

Watson seemed to know what I was thinking, and lifted a piece of toast threateningly. "Eat something!"

I shook my head. "Watson, I need peace and quiet right now if I am to solve this case."

Watson's eyes glinted mischievously, and he proceeded to munch loudly on his toast. As he finished eating, he got up and pushed his chair in, the legs squeaking loudly against the floor. Watson picked up his glass of water and drank it, making a loud "glug-glug" noise. Then he set it down with a clatter.

I could not stand the noise anymore. "Alright, Watson!" I finally yelled, throwing up my hands in defeat. "I'll eat!" I grabbed a piece of bread and munched on it, while Watson eyed the bread critically. Finally, he sighed.

"Well, Holmes, you ate, so I will stop. Though I doubt what you ate could be enough to feed a bird."


	2. Barometer

**Note: Not exactly a 221B, more like a 251B...**

** I'm sorry!**

* * *

"Watson!"

"What?" I responded, feeling irritated for being so rudely awoken. "And please, _don't_ say that the game is afoot."

I doubt I will ever get used to being awoken so early. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with it. I could easily walk out and find new lodgings. It was not as if we had become friends.

"Well, it is! I know where the murderers are now! Come along!"

Then again, maybe it was a mark of friendship, that he wanted me to come along on his cases.

I got up. It was a good thing that I hadn't changed yesterday when I had gotten back from my practice. Hastily, I tried to smoothen out the wrinkles in my clothes when-

A pang in my leg stopped me.

I sighed and descended the stairs. "Must we go out now?"

Holmes stared at me. "Yes!"

I groaned. "It will rain dreadfully today."

Holmes stopped in his tracks. "How do you know that?"

I did not respond. Nevertheless, I took my umbrella as we left.

Hours later, our quarry had escaped and we were utterly drenched. The flimsy umbrella had been useless.

Holmes shivered despondently. "You were right," he said. _"How?_"

I chuckled, in spite of the fact that I couldn't feel my fingers. "So, even _Sherlock Holmes_ cannot deduce it?"

Holmes's scowl could have rivaled the night sky in its darkness. "I do not_ intend_ to deduce anything in this weather."

"Well, it is lucky for us that my leg served as a barometer."


	3. Blotting

_Dear Holmes,_

_I trust you are doing well? I myself am happy._

_Well, happy does not cover it._

_Mary is pregnant and we are all quite excited. If it is a boy, we plan to give him your name as a middle name. We-_

I stopped writing and stared at the paper.

_Happy does not cover it._

Indeed, I am happy. But at the same time, I feel as though I had lost a brother.

_We-_

Holmes was like a brother to me.

_We-_

Mary believed that writing a letter to Holmes (as though he was alive!) would help me.

_We-_

I disagreed. Why should I delude myself? Holmes is dead, I told myself firmly. Sending him fake letters will not change that!

I blinked furiously.

_We-_

I sighed, and looked back down at the piece of foolscap I had been writing on. Then I scratched out the word "we", changing my mind about the sentence I was about to write.

_ I miss you._

_Sincerely,_

_John H. Watson_

My pen stopped skittering across the paper as I paused, looking down at the ridiculously short letter.

When I had begun writing it, I had felt foolish.

Now, I felt... peaceful. Mary had been right. She was always right about these sort of things.

I did not throw the letter away as I had intended to when I had started.

Instead, I got up and fetched one of the papers I used for blotting.


	4. Bedlam

That Doctor Watson fellow is completely and absolutely mad.

All of us Yarders agree. Why else would he accept an offer to be Mr. Holmes's flatmate?

Even I, Lestrade, who has known him for years now, would not accept the offer.

The man may be a great help to the Yard, but there are times (most of the time, really) when he acts like a lunatic. Sometimes he will be struck with an idea and will go running off to prove it right. Other times he will be totally lethargic and spend days sitting in the same armchair at 221B, struck by inertia.

I only know this because I had once had to check on him several times a week just to make sure that the crazed murderer we had been pursuing had not reached him.

Mr. Holmes can most certainly intimidate the best of them.

Holmes is also an (I must admit) brilliant actor. The Yard itself has been fooled several times by him, and the criminals even more so.

He is a blasted irritating man as well. According to Gregson, he is apparently so full of himself that it is near impossible to deflate his colossal ego.

If the good doctor hasn't already been driven mad, he will soon become it.  
For all we know, we'll someday find those two (or at least Holmes!) in Bedlam.


	5. Black Part 1

**By the way, I don't own them. Except Simons. But who would want ****_him _****anyway? **

* * *

Being pursued by criminals on a rainy day, in hindsight, may not have been the best course of action. Already my injured leg had been paining me, so why had I agreed?

Anyway, Holmes had asked me to keep an eye on the ringleader of a gang, a burly man by the name of Harold Simons. I had trailed the man for already three hours without rousing suspicion.

At least, that was what I had believed. Simons had stepped into a dark pub to get a drink at around 5 o'clock. I had slipped in after him when-

He whirled around and punched me in my bad shoulder, directly onto the mass of scar tissue there. Stars exploded in front of my eyes, and my knees nearly buckled with that one blow. Fortunately, I was not down yet, and delivered a fierce right cross to the other fellow's face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted people in the pub watching us, bloodshot eyes drooping.

No chance of help from _those_ drunkards, then.

Unfortunately, the amount of time that I took to glance at them cost me. Simons delivered two more blows to my shoulder and a swift kick to my injured leg.

As I collapsed under the agony, I hazily wondered if Holmes would forgive me for blundering on this task.

Then everything went black.

* * *

**Is that a cliffhanger I spy? **

**Yep.**

**I'm sorry for not being sorry.**


	6. Break Part 2

**Because no 221B series is complete without a little Watson whump! XD**

**My muse is evil...**

* * *

I awoke to an empty black sky- or perhaps my eyes were still closed. After a few moments, I discerned that I was lying amidst some bushes, in rather unfamiliar surroundings. I tried to get up, only to be assaulted by an onslaught of pain, and I collapsed with a stifled groan.

Repeatedly, I tried to get up without being attacked by a wave of vertigo, until I could finally stand, swaying unsteadily. I mopped my brow, to find that an entire patch of my head was covered with blood.

That explained the dizziness. Concussion, then.

Slowly, and haltingly, I tried to find some familiar landmarks. Hansoms and people who would have otherwise helped me veered away, as in the dark, I looked like just another drunkard.

A long while later, I had finally come to the front door of 221B. Slowly making my way up the steps, I opened the door to find a rather white-faced Holmes speaking to an equally worried Lestrade.

I swayed there for some moments, leg throbbing painfully. Holmes looked up at me and stared, his teacup frozen, halfway to his mouth.

Suddenly, I collapsed. As though I was looking through mist, I saw Holmes blanch and spring out of his chair.

The last thing I heard before I fell unconscious once more was the sound of a teacup breaking.


	7. Bidding Part 3

**Holmes POV:**

I had been waiting for several hours for Watson to come back, and I was growing worried. He should have been back long ago.

I fetched Lestrade to help me find Watson. Perhaps it was a bad idea.

"Where _exactly_ did Doctor Watson go?"

"I told you! He was trailing Simons!"

"Mr. Holmes, I cannot help you unless you tell me the last place he was seen! _I_ want the doctor to be found just as much as _you_ do!"

I paused at this sentiment, then retaliated with a scathing remark about the incompetence of Yarders. The argument then was interrupted by the creak of a door opening. We looked up; I took a sip of tea-

-and froze.

There stood Watson, swaying slightly and covered with a copious amount of blood. Watson's knees buckled, and he crumpled in a heap on the floor.

I dropped my teacup, paying no attention to the fact that there would soon be a stain on Mrs. Hudson's rug.

"Lestrade! Fetch a doctor!" Lestrade nodded, looking stricken, and hurried off.

I knelt down by Watson's side and turned him over. He had several rapidly blackening bruises around his bad shoulder and leg, and a lump on his head, showing that he had been bludgeoned over the head with something.

If only I hadn't sent him out so rashly in this weather to do my bidding.

* * *

**Something tells that even if Simons had started running right after he had finished with Watson, he won't be far away enough.**


	8. Bleak Part 4

**Lestrade POV:**

As soon as I saw Doctor Watson, my heart plummeted. After all, I had grown rather fond of the man, who was always so polite next to Mr. Holmes's brashness.

And then there he was, crumpled in a heap.

I was already halfway to the door when Holmes yelled to me, a note of- good Lord, was that panic?- in his voice, "Lestrade! Fetch a doctor!" And here I was, thinking that he was completely emotionless.

By the time I had returned with a doctor (the irony of the situation was not lost on me), Watson was awake once more, though struggling to focus on us. The doctor took one look at him and declared that he needed a hospital. Even _I_ could have deduced that, and I'm no Sherlock Holmes (as the man himself has reminded me so many times).

The waiting in the hospital was intolerable, and Mr. Holmes was pacing around, a murderous gleam in his eyes. I was sure that if he found Simons, the man would certainly get it.

I, for one, wouldn't stop him.

For when the doctor returned, his news was rather grim. "Three broken ribs, a broken arm, a concussion, bruising, and a twisted ankle," he announced. "We aren't sure if he may wake up again."

The future, for both Doctor Watson _and_ Simons, was looking rather bleak.

* * *

**Yowch. Poor Watson! The things we do to him... *shakes head***

**On the other hand, thanks for your wonderful reviews! Every time I read them, I hug my computer.**

**Well, no. If someone walked in on me hugging a laptop, they'd think I'm a lunatic.**

**But I ****_do_**** grin like a maniac at the computer screen. **

**That still gives the impression that I am crazy, though...**

**Well, I ****_am!_**


	9. Bars Part 5

When I came to once more, I was lying in a comfortable, warm bed- that wasn't mine. Hazily, I looked around, trying to figure out where I was now.

Several moments later, I realized I was in a hospital. Looking to the side, I saw a figure slumped in a chair at my bedside. Blinking in surprise, I realised that it was Lestrade who was snoring softly in the chair. Odd. Normally _Holmes_ would be the one to keep vigil.

"Lestrade?" I was surprised at the weakness of my voice. Lestrade looked about wildly, his eyes finally coming to rest on me.

"Doctor Watson!" he said, looking surprised. "You're awake!" He turned to the chair next to him and stared at the empty space.

"Where's Holmes?"

Lestrade did not reply, but I could hear him muttering repeatedly under his breath, "_Oh no_, not this!" He jumped up from his seat, pulled on his overcoat and dashed out the door, yelling back at me, "Sorry, Doctor, I must go! You'll understand, I hope?!"

The faint fears that had been nagging at me came to the forefront of my thoughts. Of _course_ I understood. In fact, I had half a mind to follow Lestrade.

I had no wish to hear that Sherlock Holmes was arrested for a homicide.

Neither did I wish to see him behind bars.

* * *

**Sorry for being gone so long! My teachers have this conspiracy to dump homework on me ****_all_**** at the same time! **

**But that's no excuse.**

**Bad Holmes! Don't commit murder and worry Watson even ****_more_****!**


	10. Brother Part 6

I decided to follow Lestrade. After all, I doubted that Holmes would listen to him. Highly improbable.

I attempted to sit up, then collapsed onto the pillows again, pain shooting through my chest. Not at all daunted, I used my (uninjured) arm to prop myself up, then levered myself out of the bed.

I paused. Did I _really_ want to leave a safe bed for wherever Holmes was at the moment?

I got up and went out the door, hopping gently on my good leg. Ducking behind doorways whenever somebody passed, I reached the exit of the hospital. Knowing Holmes, he probably would have deduced where I had been due to the mudstains on my clothes.

So I hailed a hansom and went to the same pub.

The moment I had stepped out, I heard shouts of "Calm _down_, Mr. _Holmes_!" and other inarticulate yells. I smiled grimly. Simons had made the mistake of staying here.

"Holmes!" The three shapes in the darkness stopped. The biggest one was pushed to the ground, the shortest to the side, and the tallest strode toward me. "_Watson_?"

"Holmes, please, don't commit a murder on my account."

"Watson! What _are_ you doing here!?"

"Never mind that. You do realize you are acting as though a brother has been wronged instead of a friend."

"On the contrary. I find _you_ more tolerable than a brother."

* * *

**And that ends this little arc! Next chapter: I... don't really know. I'm working on it!**


	11. Boys

Most would find it odd that the tenants of 221B Baker Street were in complete mourning for a person that they weren't related to. After all, Mrs. Hudson was only their landlady.

Not so.

Mrs. Hudson was the woman who put up with Sherlock Holmes's unsettling experiments. She was also the woman who was_ just_ as effective as Watson at getting him to eat.

Mrs. Hudson was the woman who forgave the doctor for getting blood all over her carpet after treating the victims of a cab accident. She was also the woman who forced him to sleep after _another_ late-night vigil over a friend.

Mrs. Hudson was the woman who kept Sherlock Holmes's rooms unchanged after his "death", even after three years had passed, for she never truly believed that he was dead. She was also the _only_ woman who burst into hysterics at his return.

Mrs. Hudson was, however, strong. From air-guns to explosive experiments, she faced them all with the same stony reaction, setting her apart from many other women of the time.

Mrs. Hudson was the woman who, when faced with a break-in at Baker Street, simply struck all the burglars on the head with her trusty frying pan, and_ then_ woke up Holmes and Watson.

They may not have been related, but Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were certainly_ her_ boys.

* * *

**I should have warned you, my muse is very depressing, in addition to being evil.**


	12. Books

The day the doctor and I first moved into Baker Street was... interesting, to say the least. For one thing, Mrs. Hudson almost chased me out the front door after I knocked down her aspidistra, spilling dirt all over the floor. Fortunately, the good doctor was able to calm her down, though for the life of me I can't imagine how. The woman is a veritable dragon when she is enraged!

The rest of the day went fairly smoothly, though with hitches. For one, in the evening, when we we were hauling the last of the boxes to our rooms, there was another. The doctor had foolishly attempted to carry three boxes all by himself. Naturally, he didn't get very far up the stairs, and nearly toppled down. I rushed over to him and snatched the boxes out of his arms, not out of any foolish sentiment, just that it wouldn't have done to have his belongings scattered all over the ground. To be honest, I nearly collapsed myself, and put the boxes down in his room with a sigh of relief. The doctor began unpacking its contents with a murmured thanks.

I stared at the objects he held in his hands in abject shock. "Does this mean that I nearly broke my back hauling up the stairs three boxes of _books_?"

* * *

**Something even remotely funny after that last depressing 221B helps, right?**


	13. Biblioklept

Though I am not the neatest person, neither is my Watson. However, he does try to limit his clutter, so the day I found his books scattered all over the place was a bit of a shock.

"Watson, why is there another one of your books on my armchair?"

Watson blushed and pushed the book off my chair. As I sat down, I heard him say, "I'm afraid I've caught a cold, and can't go out for a few days, and as I tend to read a lot when I am bored, well..." He shrugged and went back to reading his book.

I frowned. Books scattered all over the place wasn't my idea of a good place to work. I thought for some moments, but my musings were interrupted by a soft snore. Looking over, I saw that Watson had fallen asleep over his book, his head slumped his chest and his book dangerously close to slipping out of his hands. I quickly threw a blanket over him and pried the book out of his hands.

I stared at the book, an idea forming. If I hid all the books, he wouldn't be able to make a mess. I smiled and began picking up all the books and carrying them to my room. About half an hour later, Watson woke up, asking, "Holmes, have you seen my books?"

I shrugged innocently, and Watson began to laugh. "I know you took them! It's not as though Mrs. Hudson would!" He dashed off to my room before I could stop him, and he came out looking triumphant, arms laden with books.

"I knew it! Holmes, you biblioklept!"

* * *

**Holmes, you are ****_such_**** a hypocrite. I mean, it's not as though****_ you_**** aren't messy either!**


	14. Bagpiper

"_No_."

"Watson, it's for a case!"

"You know I can't play them in the first place!"

I paused. As a matter of fact, this was news to me. I retaliated with, "You don't have to actually _know_! You just have to pretend!"

"Why must _I_ do it? After all, you've told me thousands of times that I am a horrible liar. Why have you suddenly decided to use me _now_?"

"Watson, you fit the part almost perfectly!"

Watson groaned in a dismal manner. "For that manner, why don't you use Inspector MacDonald? _I_ don't even have the accent, but _he_ does!"

"You do have the accent, actually."

"_No_, I _don't_!"

"Just _listen_ to yourself! Whenever you're distressed, that- that burr creeps back into your voice!"

"That's not-" Watson cut himself off, his expression looking comical. "Oh..._Oh no." _

"I rest my case."

"Still, I may have the accent, but MacDonald can actually _play_ the blasted things!"

I sighed. I was fighting a losing battle. "Watson, I _trust_ you more!" Normally this argument would win. Apparently not this time.

"Holmes, it's not as though this case is exactly top-secret," Watson said drily. His parky humor was getting worse each day.

"But-"

"Oh, and of course, only _now_ you happen to trust my skills of deception!"

"Well, I still _don't_, but this is a matter of-"

"Holmes, just because I'm part Scottish does _not_ mean I am a natural _bagpiper_!"

* * *

**Of course, this adheres to the theory that Watson is part Scottish.**

**Imagine, if you will, Watson and Inspector MacDonald having a bagpiping competition...**


	15. Brother (Again)

**So, I decided to write something for Father's Day, but seeing as there was no Father's Day until the 20th century, it became more like "Father's Birthday".**

**221 words on the first try! Yeah!**

* * *

Early one morning, I found Holmes pacing our sitting room with a look of concentration on his face. Naturally, I assumed he had a new case, and did not think much of it until he stopped and asked, "Watson, do you have any idea what to give a father for his birthday?"

I resisted the urge to exclaim in startlement, "You have a_ father_?", and instead frowned thoughtfully. I did not have many ideas.

"You could give him a tie?" I ventured cautiously.

Holmes snorted. "As if I could give him such a clichéd gift! Really, Watson, have you no better suggestions?"

A little irked, I retorted, "The man is your father! You should be able to figure it out yourself!"

Holmes groaned. "I haven't actually _given_ him a gift in years! Normally I would just blackmail Mycroft into pretending that _his_ gift is actually from_ both_ of us! But Mycroft absolutely refuses to do so this year!" He sighed.

I raised an eyebrow. "What have I got to do with it, then?"

"My dear Watson, surely_ you_ must know. You're not the type to cut off family ties!"

"I haven't given a present to my father for years," I said flatly. Holmes looked at me in surprise, a questioning look on his face. I continued, looking down at my feet.

"He died a few months after my brother."

* * *

**Well, that turned out more depressing than I had expected...**

***smushes Watson in a hug* **


	16. Brackish

**More Simons-evilness-and-whumped-Watson-ness!**

* * *

I cursed inwardly. I had been so foolish as to blunder, rendering my trap useless! Now Simons and the rest of his gang would be still able to roam, murdering more innocents.

Worst of all, they seemed to want to start with us. Simons and his gang had cornered Watson and I on a bridge. There seemed to be no route of escape, unless-

No. Watson couldn't swim, and there was no chance that I would abandon him.  
It seemed as though the very thought of our continued existence was hopeless.  
"Mr. Holmes, prepare to die!" snarled Simons, cocking his gun. I tried and failed to think of an escape plan.

I was suddenly snapped out of my thoughts by the sight of Watson lunging at Simons, the gun in Simons's hand going off uselessly, and the two falling over the side of the bridge. The rest of the gang rushed at me, but I took them out quickly to fumble to the side and scan the water for any sight of Watson.

At the first sign of a disturbance in the water, I dived in and caught hold of him. Dragging ourselves limply to the shore, him shaking from shock, and I from the cold, he valiantly tried to attempt humour, spitting out some of the water in revulsion:

"Why must that water be so bloody brackish?"

* * *

***gives Holmes and Watson some blankets and a cup of tea***

***Holmes stalks off to murder Simons***

**A day later...**

***Watson reads in newspaper about Harold Simons's mysterious murder***


	17. Bibliophile

When Watson moved back into Baker Street, after my return, I recalled how many books he had. I picked up one of them and glanced at the cover. I immediately snorted. _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ indeed.

Watson looked over at me and stifled a laugh. "Holmes, I know what you're going to say!"

I scoffed. "Really, why do you read this- this-"

"'Floridly romantic rubbish'?" supplied Watson, throwing my own words back at me. He grinned upon seeing my scowl. "Well, because the stories are well-written-"

I scoffed once more.

"Holmes, let me continue. The books that I own are _good_ books!" Watson emphasized the word "good". "And really, that particular book might _actually_ interest you. You should try reading it!"

"I should be out of my mind if I did!"

* * *

Several days later, I _was_ out of my mind. With boredom. As a last resort to avoid the cocaine (Watson, aren't you proud?), I picked up the book.

An hour later, I realized I still hadn't put it down. Horror of horrors, was I actually _enjoying_ the book?

Unfortunately, Watson chose that exact moment to walk into the room. He immediately burst into laughter. "Holmes, you _are_ a hypocrite!"

I quickly put the book down and denied all. "Not at all! I was merely seeking an explanation for your being a bibliophile!"


	18. Baby

**Set about two years into the Great Hiatus, this story is little longer that 221 words. Then again, more words to celebrate!**

* * *

Nail-biting is not a desirable habit to have in oneself. Normally, I do not engage in it at all. When I was in the army, I never practised it. Even when I was in a nerve-wracking situation with Holmes, I never found occasion to do it!

This, however, was entirely different from facing murderous Ghazis or villainous criminals.

This was introducing myself to my newborn child.

"Go on, John!" chided Mary, holding him out to me. "He's _your_ son!"

I nervously took the small bundle, and looked down into hazel eyes that mirrored my own. A small tuft of flaxen hair stuck up atop his head, feather-soft to the touch. He gurgled happily upon seeing a new face. "What did you decide to name him?" I whispered in awe.

Mary smiled. "I though that you should have the honour of naming him."

"Mary!" I exclaimed. "You can't expect me to name him! You should, you're his mother!"

Mary sighed, looking exasperated, though her eyes said different. "I'll only choose his middle name." She thought for some moments, and at last, her eyes lit up. "Sherlock," she said firmly. "After all the great things Mr. Holmes had done before his... death, he should at least be given the honour of being someone's namesake!"

I nodded slowly and searched my mind for a fitting first name to be paired with "Sherlock". Finally, I hesitantly suggested the name "David", after my orderly in the war, David Murray. A slow, warm smile stole across Mary's face as she mouthed the name to herself. "David Sherlock Watson it is!" she declared happily, as I looked down at my son's face once more.

I smiled the widest I ever had within the last two years.

Mary and I had a baby.

* * *

**Because I randomly decided that Murray's first name was David.**

**I really am setting myself up for a heartbreaking ending, aren't I?**


	19. Books (Again!)

**53 reviews for 18 measly chapters? You guys are the best! Here's some cavity-inducing sweetness packed in 221 words in return:**

* * *

I am not normally a jumpy man. However, thanks to the arrival of my son, David Sherlock, I have gotten overprotective.

After all, it was only natural to strive to keep my son alive, after I had failed to do so for his namesake. Both Mary and David were incredibly precious in my eyes, more important than any tangible thing.

So, the day I heard a cry from upstairs, where Mary and my son were, my heart nearly stopped. I dropped my notebook and rushed to them, revolver at the ready. Dozens of scenarios flitted through my head. Had a murderer found them? Did Moriarty survive Reichenbach and decide to send an assasin after my family? Had a wild animal escaped from the Zoo?

The last scenario proves how rationally I was thinking.

When I burst into the room, I realized that I had misinterpreted Mary's cry. Rather than a cry of fear, as my overactive imagination had thought, it was of delight. She turned to me, almost glowing with happiness.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Oh, John," began my wife. "David said his first word!"

I looked down at my son, who was babbling happily once more. I picked him up, ruffling the sandy hair that was so like Mary's. "What was the word?" I queried.

Mary's smiled widened, if that was within the realm of possibility. "'_Books_'!"

* * *

**Well, he takes after his father. "Books" indeed.**

**In fact, he also takes after Holmes, in the way that he can cause Watson to have a heart attack.**


	20. Buried

**Less than 221 words, 'm afraid. It was too hard, and too sad.**

* * *

There was a man standing in the graveyard, head bowed. He had undergone a complete transformation from only three days before.

His hazel eyes had lost their twinkle.

His clothes were loose on his frame, showing that he had lost weight.

His face had lost its healthful pink tinge.

His head had lost some hairs. Those had been replaced by grayer ones.

Worst of all, the man had lost his happiness.

He wiped a tear from his eye and tried not to outwardly cry. He tried, yet he failed dismally. One escaping tear served to only open the floodgates. The man, standing alone in front of three graves, wept in silence.

Three graves. All bearing the names of his loved ones.

The oldest one read, _Sherlock Holmes_.

The newest bore the names _Mary Watson_ and _David Sherlock Watson_.

The man was alone, literally as well as figuratively.

And he desperately wondered why the people he cared about always ended up buried.

* * *

***blows nose***

***smushes Watson in a hug***


	21. Broken

**A 442B (double 221B) to cheer you up! **

***hands peaceandlove23, Lily McMissile, and cjnwriter handkerchiefs for the last chapter* Sorry I made you cry! Here are some virtual cookies, specialty of Lestrade's wife! (Psst: SHE MAKES AWESOME COOKIES.)**

**Okay, onward with the story!**

* * *

Upon entering the sitting room of Baker Street one day, I immediately began coughing. The dense cloud of smoke was so dark that I couldn't even see one meter in front of me. For a moment I was afraid that the rooms had caught fire, but then I remembered Holmes's smoking habit.

Not that it was much better than having our rooms go up in flames.

"Holmes- (_inhale_)- you're going to choke yourself- (_gasp_)- this-isn't-healthy- (cough)- _FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, MAN, OPEN THE BLASTED WINDOW, AT LEAST!_" I bellowed as loud as I could with the thick smoke assailing my throat.

Out of the depths of the room came an infuriatingly sardonic reply. "Watson, don't fuss so much. I am perfectly fine, as you can hear."

I muttered grumpily to myself and tried to make my way to the window. Unfortunately, I was not able to see anything, and tripped over what felt to be...Holmes's violin. As I pitched head first into the wall, I threw up my arms to protect my head.

Even more unfortunately, I did not hit the wall, but the window. As thousand little shards of glass assaulted my arms, I heard Holmes's startled cry above the tinkle of breaking glass. The instant I struck the windowsill, I warily opened my eyes and realized that my whole torso was dangling from the window of 221B.

I wondered hazily what the neighbors would think. Most likely, they would fear for our sanity.

Holmes dragged me back into the relative safety of our sitting room, with a remorseful look on his face. "I am _never_ going to smoke again!" he declared melodramatically as he fetched my medical bag.

I took the bag and began cleaning my cuts. "Holmes, I really doubt you could ever abstain from smoking."

"That's true..." he muttered. Suddenly, he turned to me, a wry smile on his face. "Well, at least you got the window open, eh, old boy?"

I glared at him. "I'd punch you if it weren't for all these _cuts_ on my _arm_!" The cuts were numerous, but shallow, despite all the blood they were dripping. At Holmes's suddenly worried face I laughed. "Don't worry, it looks worse than it is!"

Holmes sighed in relief, though I could still sense some underlying worry. "All right, I won't smoke for a _week_! How's that?"

Instead of a reply, I merely snorted. Suddenly, Holmes's face turned ashen, and as I turned around to see what it was, mine did as well.  
Mrs. Hudson swooped into the room and stopped in shock. After ensuring thatI was all right, what I had dreaded came to be true.

She began yelling at us about the window that was broken.


	22. Birthday

**Happy birthday, Watson, a day early!**

**That is, if you subscribe to the notion that his birthday was July 7th.**

* * *

Inspector Lestrade was known for his obsessive neatness. Even though his job served to undermine that trademark immaculate look of his, he would always clean himself up as fast as possible.

So, it was with some surprise that, one morning, I observed Lestrade rushing into Baker Street just as we were having breakfast, looking extremely ruffled and out of breath. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor, but I've some news you might need to hear."

Holmes's annoyed expression suddenly disappeared. "Is it a case?" he said eagerly.

Lestrade heaved a great sigh. His whole appearance told me that something was wrong. "Lestrade, are you alright?" I queried cautiously.

He gave me a small half-smile. "Ever the doctor, aren't you?" he said. The teasing tone did nothing to hide the worried look in his eyes.

"Lestrade. . ." I said warningly.

"Harold Simons is alive."

I dropped the fork I had been holding with a clatter, and Holmes leapt up. "What? How?" he thundered. "I killed-"

I kicked him in the leg. It wouldn't do to tell Lestrade that Holmes was a murderer. "Are you sure, Lestrade?"

"One of the men in his gang confessed it to Hopkins, and he went and got Gregson, who in turn wired me and told me to warn you."

In reply, I blinked at Lestrade, dumbfounded.

What a wonderful present for my birthday.

* * *

**I probably won't continue this...**

**Unless you really want me to, then I'll try to think of something.**


	23. Blink

**I might continue the previous 221B, but it'll take a while for me to think of a whole story around it.**

**So, here comes the word "Blink". You have any idea how much I wanted to make this one a crossover with Doctor Who? Weeping Angels galore. **

**Well, you wouldn't know unless you were a Whovian too. **

**But, no Weeping Angels here. Just a criminal who is very good at shooting people with his hands cuffed.**

* * *

More often than not, Holmes's cases end with the criminal either trying to kill us or run from us.

It wasn't often, however, that a criminal would try to resist arrest from_ three Yarders, Holmes, and I._

But resist he did. Jenkins managed to grab his revolver from the ground and fire a some shots at Lestrade, Gregson, and Hopkins, even with his hands cuffed. Holmes dived at him, and I joined in.

Then came chaos. As the three of us began to engage in a brawl, I noticed a commotion out of the corner of my eye, where the three inspectors were. I ignored them for the moment, as the more pressing item was subduing Jenkins.

After Holmes and I had subdued Jenkins, I turned around and promptly froze at the sight of Hopkins on the ground, glassy-eyed, with a crimson stain on his shirt front, and the other two inspectors trying to keep him awake. I rushed over to the group. "Is he alright?" I asked. As soon as the words left my mouth I knew how futile it was to ask.

"We need to stop the bleeding," I said. "Gregson, Lestrade, you might want to step away."

The two inspectors moved out of my way to where they could still see Hopkins.

"Hopkins, if you can hear us, can you, at least twice, blink?"

* * *

**Why is it that I feel more remorseful for hurting Hopkins than Watson? Maybe because in my mind, Hopkins is just a hyperactive young inspector who tries to live up to Holmes's expectations. **

**In my mind, Hopkins acts like a boy, but can also be very serious and inspector-y.**


	24. Bouncing Part 2

**Poor Hopkins... XD**

**I am not at all remorseful.**

* * *

"We'll take him to Baker Street," said Holmes briskly. "It's closer than the hospital."

Leaving Jenkins to the Yarders that the Irregulars had fetched during the chaos, we made our way outside, with Gregson carrying Hopkins. It was an unusually bright day (for London, at least), though it did little to improve the moods of the people in our little group.

As Lestrade hailed a hansom, I realized something. "We won't all fit."

We decided that Gregson, Hopkins, and I would go first, with Lestrade and Holmes following behind. Gregson and I hoisted Hopkins into the hansom.

I recalled Lestrade saying once that Hopkins "was much too young to get murdered by an escaping criminal". And now, here he was, not dead, but not exactly in the waking world either.

Though I am not a superstitious man, I wondered if Lestrade had jinxed Hopkins with those words. Then I shook my head.

I couldn't afford to be irrational at that moment.

The hansom came to a halt, and I felt Hopkins shift next to me. Gently, Gregson and I helped, or rather _carried_ him out.

I noted that he had gotten paler.

Inside 221b, we laid him on the settee. As I went to fetch my medical bag, I heard Lestrade murmur, "All those times I had wished he would shut up and stop his blasted _bouncing_..."

* * *

**Aw...Now Lestrade is feeling guilty! *hugs everyone except Holmes, because he hates hugs***


	25. Bored Part 3

**This is for Cjn. After all, if I made Hopkins die or anything, she'd probably kill me with her virtual death glare. XD**

* * *

"Hopkins'll be alright," I reassured Lestrade and Gregson. "He's awake now, but he'll require some peace and-"

I was cut off by an angry shout from Holmes in the room where Hopkins was. "Sit down, Hopkins, before you hurt yourself!" he snapped.

Hopkins mumbled something about it being "too late for that", just as I burst into the room to see him standing upright shakily, gripping onto the mantelpiece for support, his face still as pale as the bandaging on his chest. He managed to smile brightly despite his obvious discomfort. "Hello, Doctor! Tell Holmes that I feel fine, will you?" He paused and added, "Please?"

"As a matter of fact," I began huffily, "I will not! You are still a long way from fine, young man!" I gripped him by the shoulders and sat him down firmly in an armchair. Why was it that the patients in my practice took my advice to heart, but not any of my friends?

"Doctorr..." whined Hopkins, looking like a petulant child (rather like Holmes when he is sick). "What do I do? There's nothing at all to-"

He was cut off by Lestrade groaning next to me, "Oh, no, a bored Stanley Hopkins is- is-" He struggled to find the right words, so I tried to supply them.

"-Almost as bad as Sherlock Holmes when he's bored?"

* * *

**I might not be updating often for about a month, because I'm in India, doing touristy things even though I was born there. XD**


	26. Boy Part 1

My experiments tend to explode. Watson is used to this, of course, but there are times when even he is not expecting anything and is startled.

This was one of those times. As the vial of chemicals I was holding gave off a large _BANG_!, Watson started violently and dropped his cup of coffee on his desk. The brown liquid immediately soaked through a paper on the desk.

Watson's eyes widened, and he grabbed the paper, on which I could see a photo was printed. Suddenly, my friend stunned me by tearing a strip of cloth off his sleeve and scrubbing at the photo with it, trying to get the stain out. Moments later, as he realized that it was futile to do so, he made a sort of choking sound and dropped back into his chair, clutching the photo to his heart.

"Watson?" I asked gently, slightly confused. "Are you-" I refrained from completing the question, as he was obviously not alright.

Watson gulped a little and turned red, looking a bit embarrassed at his display. He silently handed the photo to me.

I took it, scrutinizing it for reasons for Watson's actions. Through the brown stains quickly destroying the paper, I could make out some familiar faces. Watson, Mrs. Watson, and- I suddenly understood his reaction to the photo's destruction-

-a baby boy.

* * *

***sobs***

**Sorry this took so long! **

**Going on vacation is hard work... That's backwards.**


	27. Beaming Part 2

**YAY! I have a new reader! Thank you, JuneGilbertVivianRaeven for all your reviews!**

**This chapter is a continuation of the last.**

* * *

I pulled a chair up to the desk where Watson was sitting, and gave the photo back to him. "My dear Watson, I-"

"It wasn't your fault, Holmes," Watson replied with a wan smile.

"Do you happen to have another photo?" It was futile to hope so, though, since Watson's reaction had told me that it was the only one.

Watson shook his head. "Mary and I barely got David to sit still long enough for one." I knew that by "David", he meant his son, since I had seen the obituary reading, "David S. Watson" in the newspaper.

Watson suddenly chuckled. "David always was an active boy. Always bouncing about. He once tried to use Anstruther's dog as a stuffed animal!"

I laughed. "He must have been a handful."

Watson looked nostalgic. "Yes, he was. He was always making me worried for his safety, just like his namesakes."

"Namesakes?" I knew that David was named after Watson's orderly, but who else had he been named after?"

Watson gave me a sad smile. "You don't know what his full name was?"

I shook my head.

"'David Sherlock Watson'."

Stunned into silence, I stared at Watson, feeling inexplicably guilty for all the pain he had gone through in the years of my absence.

Slowly, I turned my head to look once more at the photograph of the little family who was beaming.

* * *

***heart aches* I feel so guilty for destroying Watson's only photograph of his family!**

**And I'll make the next chapter one where Holmes is sick and really bored, since you asked for it, JuneGilbertVivianRaeven! I needed ideas anyway.**

**As for the rest of you, I still need ideas for the chapters after that, so fire away! **


	28. Body

**This went from "bored, sick Holmes" to "Sherlock Holmes vs. Pink Fluffy Unicorns".**

**Go figure.**

* * *

"Watson! Look out!"

I sighed and mopped my brow. It was getting intolerably stuffy in the room. "Holmes, neither of us are in any danger. You're just having a fever dr-"

"_No_!"

"Holmes?"

Holmes's brow suddenly knitted in confusion. "How are you still alive?.."

I stared at my friend. He had a fever, which was still low enough for him to converse with me, but high enough to induce fever dreams.

"No, no! The unicorn killed you!" Holmes looked horror-struck

"Holmes, you were dreaming."

"No, I wasn't!" exclaimed my friend petulantly. "The unicorn's horn went straight through your chest! I saw it!" Holmes's voice was getting increasingly panicky, but I had to smile a little that he still cared about my welfare.

Even in a ridiculously bizarre fever dream.

"Unicorns do not exist, Holmes."

"I saw one! You can't deny the evidence of my senses!"

I sat back in my chair and groaned. "Well, actually, I can, since your senses are not in their proper order at the moment."

"I saw it!"

"Alright, then, describe it."

"Well, it was magenta, and looked like a horse except for its horn."

"_Magenta_?"

Holmes's voice rose an octave. "It killed you, Watson! I-"

"Holmes, if I have to hear another word about horned horses in an alarming shade of fuschia, so help me, I'll pour this bowl of broth over your body!"


	29. Back

**I was listening to "The Doctor's Wife" (by the Clockwork Quartet), and that sort of inspired this.**

**I think Watson would have done the same as the doctor in that song, if he had been a lot darker.**

**And, I know this isn't a 221B, exactly, but I have no excuse. *hangs head shamefully***

* * *

Mary was dying.

The awful finality of the statement echoed through my head as I looked down at my wife, in the throes of a fever. All the other doctors told me that there was no chance of her survival at this point, and so left me alone with her.

I could hear David crying in the waiting room, and Anstruther's wife trying to calm him.

"John?" I looked at Mary. Her face was flushed, her voice was weak, and her eyes were dim, but she was still alive.

"John, take care of David after I am gone."

I let out a sound akin to a sob, and held her hand. "Of course I will, Mary." Mary smiled peacefully and closed her eyes. I panicked and gripped her hand even tighter.

My wife's eyes flitted open again, and she gave a weak laugh. "Oh, John, don't fret. I'm not gone yet."

I gave a choked laugh that turned into a sob.

Mary closed her eyes again, and smiled even wider. "I can see my mother and father."

Mary's parents were dead. Recalling my own near death experiences, I knew that, many times, one would see the loved ones who had passed away.

I pressed my wife's hand to my heart.

Mary suddenly frowned. "I- I can't see him." She opened her eyes and stared at me. "John, Mr. Holmes isn't there."

I smiled sadly. "You probably didn't notice him."

Mary shook her head. "He isn't there."

"Holmes is dead, Mary." The words came out harsher than I had meant them to be. "Oh- oh, no, I'm sorry-"

"There's no need to be sorry." Mary closed her eyes once more. In a soft voice, she murmured, "I love you."

I felt tears well up in my eyes. "Mary, I-" A sob cut off my words. "I love you too."

As Mary's hand went limp, I struggled to make out what her last words were, tears now falling openly.

In a faint voice, she whispered, _"I promise, John, Mr. Holmes will come back."_

* * *

**My heart is ripped to shreds.**


	30. Brotherhood

**I know, two updates in a day. Amazing, right? *bows***

* * *

Holmes had gotten a telegram.

Now, this normally wasn't news, seeing as he got telegrams from potential clients all the time.

This telegram, however, was different. As he unfolded the opaque piece of paper, I saw that his brow was furrowed in confusion.

Then, he turned as pale as the paper clenched in his hand. Slowly, slowly, his grip on the paper tightened until I was sure it would rip.

Finally, he flung the paper to the ground and rushed out the door, forgetting to even take his hat.

"Holmes! Holmes, old chap, what's wrong?"

He either did not hear me, or chose to ignore me in the favor of speed. He stalked off into the distance, looking around for a cab to hail.

I frowned, and picked up the paper. What had been so shocking as to have such an adverse reaction?

I glanced over it and immediately understood.

MR HOLMES STOP MYCROFT HOLMES ILL STOP IN CHARING CROSS HOSPITAL STOP YOU ARE LISTED AS ONLY REMAINING FAMILY MEMBER FINAL STOP

So the Holmes brothers, for all their bickering and arguing, still did have a sense of brotherhood.


	31. Bang Part 1

**Three updates in a day! That's unheard of, from me at least!**

* * *

I was working on an experiment, which required handling volatile chemicals.

Naturally, the moment I told Watson this, he sat down as far as possible from my table, and kept sneaking wary glances at me over the top of his book.

Then, there was a loud, insistent knock at the door to our sitting room. I nearly dropped one of my vials, but caught it just in time. I scowled in the general direction of the door.

Watson, glancing at me and sensing what sort of mood I was in, got up to open the door. I assumed it was a new client, and, wanting to exercise my skills of deduction, I turned to look at the visitor.

He was a tall man, not quite as tall as me, but taller than Watson, at least. However, he looked considerably younger than my friend, with a round, rather boyish face, and a shock of red hair.

His eyes, however, startled me. They were a normal shade of blue, but the depths his eyes seemed to go to made them look older than the rest of him.

These were the eyes of the man who had seen many horrors.

These eyes, though a different color, were like that of my Watson.

The man began speaking. "I'm looking for a Doctor John Watson." I could tell by the accent that the stranger, though a well-bred Englishman, had spent some time in the United States.

"That is I. Do you need a medical consultation?" Watson replied evenly.

The man stared with undisguised astonishment at Watson. "Good Lord! Watson, is that really you?" He gave a wide grin.

Recognition, along with shock, flitted across my friend's face. _"Murray?"_

The shocked silence only lasted for so long until my experiment gave a loud _bang!_

* * *

**To be continued!**


	32. Bear Part 2

**Seriously, Murray is number one on my list of ****_Characters ACD Should Have Used More._**

* * *

Watson stared at Murray, face wreathed in smiles. "You've changed quite a bit!"

Murray chuckled good-naturedly. "Yes, I've grown taller- and I don't have that blasted moustache anymore."

Watson laughed. "I must say, you did look rather ridiculous in one."

"Though, to be honest, you've changed rather a lot more than I." Murray smiled sadly. "The last time I ever say you, you were dying of blood loss with a bullet in your shoulder and leg."

Watson nodded. "How are you?"

Murray didn't seem to mind the abrupt change in subject. Perhaps the two war veterans didn't like to dwell on the horrific things they had seen. "I'm doing well. After I left the army, I moved to the States and started up a practice there. I've also gotten married and had a child since then."

Watson's face split in a wide grin. "Congratulations, my good man! I'm sure your family must be lovely!"

Murray's eyes twinkled mischievously. "See for yourself!" He gestured for someone to enter the room, and in walked a willowy young woman whose hand was being clutched by that of a small boy. "Margaret, meet Dr. Watson!"

Mrs. Murray smiled. "It's good to meet the person who was such a good friend to my husband during the war." She turned to her son. "John, this is Dr. Watson!"

The boy merely glared sullenly up at my friend, clutching a small toy bear.

* * *

**Oh, I don't think Murray's little boy likes Watson...**

**Mrs. Margaret Murray. Alliteration much? :P**

**No, Murray, unfortunately, only Watson can pull off an army 'stache. **

**To be continued! (This might be a rather long story arc, just saying)**


	33. Bad Part 3

**Over a hundred reviews! Whoohoo! *celebrates***

**Your reviews always cheer me up after a bad day.**

* * *

Watson cocked an eyebrow. "'John'?"

Murray chuckled. "Yes, I did name him after you. Why _wouldn't_ I?"

Watson smiled a small smile. "_My_ son was named David."

David Murray's eyes suddenly softened. Opening his mouth to say something, he was cut off by his son. "You have a son?"

Watson knelt down to speak to the boy. "Why, yes I did. He would be your age, in fact."

"Can I play with him?" John looked hopeful.

Watson's friendly smile wavered for a moment. "I'm afraid he's gone."

"Gone where?" asked the child obstinately. He was instantly swept up by his mother, who was apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry, I realize that was rather rude of him!" Mrs. Murray exclaimed.

Murray sighed in exasperation, and, giving an apologetic glance to my friend, began chiding John. "John, that wasn't polite!"

However, the boy had already stopped listening and had caught sight of me. Eyes widening, he pointed and exclaimed, "You have a big nose!"

Watson tried and failed to stifle a laugh. I glared at him, then turned to the child, drawing myself up. "Why, yes, I do. What do you make of it?"

John's attention had switched back to his mother, however, who was scolding him again. She looked up at me. "I really do apologize. He hasn't learned his manners yet."

John looked proud. "Daddy says my manners are_ bad!"_

* * *

**Shame on you, John Murray. Nobody insults Holmes nose and lives to tell the story!**

**Holmes: *glare* Watson, I think I would have much preferred your son.**

**Watson: *huffs* Well, too bad, because you weren't even there! *stalks off***

**Holmes: *looks regretful* No! Watson! Come back! I'm sorry!**

**Watson: Too late!**


	34. Been Part 4

**I just realized that more people like John Murray rather than little David Watson. This makes me wonder what ****_your _****manners are like!**

**Just kidding, kidding, I bet they're fine. **

* * *

I decided to sit down, as it seemed to look like it was going to be a long day, what with the infuriating child in the room. Despite the fact that he was named after my gentle friend, he had not the manners of Watson.

Watson chuckled helplessly some more, this time not even bothering to stop when I turned a rather heated glare on him. "Perhaps the boy's picked up on Holmes's lack of tact!"

Murray let out a hearty guffaw at this, while I let out an- I am not ashamed to admit it- outraged squawk. I finally let out an exasperated sigh and hid myself- and my "big" nose- behind the newspaper that Watson had conveniently left on the chair.

My friend turned to John Murray. "Young man, do you want to learn your manners?"

The boy shook his head.

Murray cut in. "John, look at Dr. Watson here. He has great manners, so he has many friends-" here Watson turned a little red and muttered something about not having that many, "- right? Manners make people like you. Do you want to have friends?"

John's brow furrowed. "If there was anyone to play with!"

Murray sighed. "If _your_ son was here, Watson, I honestly wonder what could have been."

* * *

**Ah, what could have been. I bet Watson often wonders too.**


	35. Bullets Part 5

**Yes, I rather went over 221 words. But I had a good reason!**

**Don't believe me? *sighs and waves you on* You can just read it, then.**

* * *

As Watson attempted to teach some manners to John, with Mrs. Murray trying and failing to help, the senior Murray struck up a conversation with me. "So," he began. "Sherlock Holmes, eh?" He grinned.

I smiled wanly back at him. It was not that he wasn't a likeable fellow, it was just that his son was blasted irritating. "Watson's told me quite a bit about you."

Murray looked surprised. "He has?"

I made a wry face. "Does Watson look like the type of person who'd never mention one of his friends, let alone the man who saved his life?"

Instead of brightening, as I had expected, Murray's face creased in a frown. "Not quite _saved_, really…"

I was curious as to what he meant. "Whatever do you mean?"

"His getting shot was partially my fault. I was having a bit of trouble helping another injured chap, and Watson turned around to help me, and…" Murray broke off, a slightly pained expression on his face. "Watson might not have gotten shot if I hadn't been there."

"Yes, but if you hadn't been there, there would have been nobody to help him if he had been injured _anyway_."

Murray was silent, leaving me to ponder.

True, it bothered _me_ that Watson's bad leg and shoulder bothered _him_.

But if it weren't for his being invalided out of the army, I might never have met him.

I suddenly realized just how much I owed to those bullets.


	36. Big-Nose Part 6

Hours later (Good Lord! Had the time passed so quickly?), the Murrays got up to leave. Watson and Murray stood facing each other, both looking rather awkward, neither looking as though they knew how to say good-bye.

Murray finally broke the silence. "Watson, did I ever tell you that I'm rubbish at parting ways with someone?"

Watson grinned at him. "No, you didn't, but I can decipher that for myself."

Finally, the pair managed to settle on a more formal handshake, which quickly turned into them wringing each other's hand. Then, Watson turned to Mrs. Murray, and, with a courteous sweep of the arm (ever the gentleman, is my Watson), led her out of the room.

Murray turned to his son. "Come along, John."

John merely sat down and glared at his father. "No," he declared. "I wanna stay!"

Murray chuckled. "Shall I have to carry you out, then?" He swooped up the boy and turned to me. "Good-bye, Mr. Holmes. It was a pleasure meeting you." In an undertone, he added, "And thank you for being such a good friend to Watson all these years."

I felt my lips quirk upward in a smile. "And thank _you_ for saving him."

Murray then exited the room, the somber silence only broken by his son exclaiming, "Bye, Mister Big-Nose!"

* * *

**I know. Technically, that's two words. Cut me some slack here, will ya?**


	37. Baked

**Hehehe, I know, wrong season, but still.**

* * *

"Watson, what on_ Earth_ are you doing?"

I looked up at the sound of Holmes's voice and grinned broadly at him. "Can't you see? I'm helping Wiggins build a snowman!" As an afterthought, I added impishly, "'You see, but you do not observe', Holmes."

Holmes grumbled at me, something about me being extraordinarily childish.

Wiggins shared a mischievous look with me, and quietly moved away to creep behind Holmes while I tried to distract him. "The great Sherlock Holmes can't even deduce what I'm doing?" I teased.

Holmes glared at me darkly and opened his mouth to say something- and was cut off by a nicely aimed snowball. He yelped, and turned around, just when I managed to hit him with one of my own. "Watson!" he yelled at me, looking indignant. "This is most unfair! Two to one!"

I couldn't resist a laugh at his childish expression, and narrowly dodged another snowball thrown by Holmes, who seemed rather revenge-bent. "Holmes, if you want reinforcements, get them yourself!"

Holmes stalked off rather huffily, and returned with another Irregular, Peter, at his heels. Soon, the air turned into a flurry of flying snow, rent by yells of "I'll get you now, Watson!" and, "Not a chance, Holmes!"

A few passers-by took one look at us and muttered something about "men never growing up".

The fight stopped_ not_ when a police constable decided to stop us for disturbing the peace, nor did any of us get tired.

No, the fight only stopped when Mrs. Hudson called us inside for cookies-that were freshly baked.

* * *

**Good tactic, Mrs. H.**


	38. Birth

**This might not make sense, unless you remember that Holmes and Mycroft have a seven-year age-difference, and that their family was French-ish.**

**Grand-mère apparently translates into English as "Grandmother". Shoot me, I used Google Translate.**

* * *

Holmes and I had gone to the Diogenes Club to discuss a case with Mycroft. Of course, as the hours passed, our topic shifted from the case, to our highly paranoid client, and finally to the idea behind superstitions.

Holmes leaned back in his chair. "I myself am not a very superstitious person-" He stopped talking at my raised eyebrow. "Watson, I've no idea what you're thinking, but I can assure you that you are wrong."

"Holmes, I seem to recall one case in which we were chasing a counterfeiter, and you took a _detour_ around a _ladder._"

Holmes sniffed haughtily while the elder Holmes laughed. "Dr. Watson, the reason for that is that our grandmother used to feed Sherlock and I all those ridiculous adages when we were young."

Holmes sat up and quoted melodramatically, "'Bad luck comes in threes'. She always used to tell us that." He made a wry face. "Ah, but she also told us not to break any mirrors, and that _certainly_ holds true for Mycroft." He grinned impishly.

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, looking curiously at the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock is referring to an incident that happened when I was a mere infant."

Holmes grinned. "According to our mother, Mycroft was wailing and making a fuss, and he knocked over a mirror that _Grand-mère_ was holding."

Mycroft sighed. "The old superstition says that breaking a mirror will bring seven years of bad luck, does it not?"

"However," cut in Holmes, "Mycroft was a perfectly ordinary child with the usual amount of luck for seven entire years."

Mycroft gave Holmes a look. "But all that bad luck culminated at the _age of seven_, with my_ insufferable_ brother's birth."

* * *

**Oh, you can just ****_feel _****all the brotherly love in that. XD**


End file.
